A journal of narrative writing.
Fleeing Juarez Exodus Leaves More Than 100,000 Homes Abandoned

The land never wanted us.You know this in March when the wind raises the dust level to choke or becomes the thin blue needle that penetrates the inner ear until every last word scrapes against you like hot car or hot gun. And one day you spy a bird in a nearby sycamore, stripped of its feathers as if by oiled fingers. The developments always had ghosts just as the sky itself is made of them. The light that leaves the body when the body is gone. I ask you why we moved here. You shrug, but the answer is not as simple as despair. More like the hunger we feel as we split the last fig from our back- yard tree—that such honey should exist in this landscape of arroyo and chicken wire, the thousand plastic bags swelling with wind like cartoon hearts in love. Perhaps we only grew addicted to the ability (that seemed ours) to see as if from very far away. To see as we imagine God might if he existed, wandering his mansion of many rooms, unable to discern from so on high if we are embracing or strangling each other. Now the abandoned homes have formed a city, a ghost of our own; it speaks of betrayal and abandonment; it speaks the language of any desert thing, which must shed a skin, a sting in order to survive, hard thorn of ocotillo which resembles at some distance a flower, a spike in this dust-packed earth, this house of sky.